


Cursed by the Love that I Receive

by the_divine_comedian



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Call me by your lesbian, Elia and Olive both count as Jewish names don’t worry I googled, F/F, F/M, I genderswapped call me by your name so you didn’t have to, Pining for days, Yes there ARE Peaches In This One Too, definitely smut, lesbian cmbyn (emotional) (NOT CLICKBAIT), references to English lit and opera because yes, sexual tension so thick it could be sliced by Olive’s god like jaw, slowburn baby, tender horny and feral in that order
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 01:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_divine_comedian/pseuds/the_divine_comedian
Summary: “It makes me want to kill myself with Ophelia, I want to stand on stage with her and scream with her  and draw blood from my own arms…” I trailed off, wincing. “I don’t know why I said that.”Her lips parted like she wanted to respond, but her fingertips grazed my knee and I winced again, this time from pain and not regret. “Looks like you’ve already dawn some blood. How did that happen?”I was blushing like a drunk. “I… I don’t remember.” She was still touching my knee, but now she was caressing the underside of it. I wish I had been drunk.“I don’t remember,” Olive repeated, seeing through my lie. Which made me shiver to think she could look at me and reach right into the ugliest parts. Oh, Ophelia, give your dagger to me so I might carve my shame from my breast_________Ah yes, the lesbians deserve summer Italian sexual tension heartbreaking love stories too. Call Me By Your Name, but two stupid pining queer ladies. Yes, lots and lots of pining. Slow burn who.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ‘È molto carina’ means ‘she is very pretty’
> 
> This first chapter is very short, the others will be longer. 
> 
> Please enjoy *blows a kiss*

> _"No: I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if others don’t love me, I would rather die than live—I cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen.”_
> 
> __~ Jane Eyre_ _

__________

It was a girl this time.

I mean, I knew she was going to be a girl. I’d known since December of last year, when my father was poring over dozens and dozens of candidates for our next summer houseguest, his annual live-in student. I’d nearly memorized the photograph that he held up to my mother that evening at the dinner table, while Mafalda rattled on about roasted lamb. She was practically spoon-feeding the meat into my frowning mouth, while managing to scold me at the same time, which had almost become part of our evening routine. Part of me still wonders if Mafalda was in fact my real mother, because my own never took to chastising me. Or perhaps I was one of the lucky ones and had nothing to rebel against or be chastised over. My mother was sipping her wine and winking at my situation. 

Father had said something about promising, top of the class, and witty. “ _Sì_ ,” was my mother’s soft and tipsy reply. “Very promising.” Neither of them commented on the fact that she was a _she_. Which, in my barely seventeen year old opinion, was probably the most important fact about her. Especially when her picture looked equally terrifying and unknowable. 

And there she was, standing in the foyer, straw hat and billowy blue shirt slipping off her sun kissed shoulder. It was eerie seeing her now, real, tangible, like seeing the legitimate Mona Lisa for the first time, both less and more impressive than a small printed photo you’d seen months ago. I realized that she was in fact staring at me and probably had been for sometime. This made me blush, partially because I felt stupid for not having realized she was waiting, but because she had been waiting for _me_ to initiate the conversation. 

“Hope your trip was good,” I said. Stupidly. She doesn’t want to talk to you. _Stupida_. 

To my utter and complete horror, she smiled, a polite, closed lipped adult smile that meant _oh, poor little child, can’t even talk._

“It was, yeah. Is your dad home?”

The side of my ankle tingled and I scratched it with my toenail, balancing on one foot for a moment. “No, he’s just gone into B., but he’ll be back soon. My mother–“ 

She wasn’t paying attention anymore. “Great, thanks,” one flip flop crossed the threshold. 

“Wait–“ I hated how high my voice sounded, still sharp and young and everything her voice was not. “Don’t you want to see your room? I can take your bag for you.”

She seemed to look at my face for the first time, like someone who’d been trying to swat away a bothersome fly and was now realizing instead it was a wasp. “Yeah, that’d be great.” Great great great. 

The rucksack was handed to me, and it was a lot heavier than I had anticipated. I might have grunted, only for the shock, but I don’t remember now. 

I do remember the way she turned back around, all Golden sunlight from the strands of hair plastered to a glistening forehead, ocherous and wet, to the tawny skin of an arm that in the underpart turned almost pale peach, ripe to eat and lick and devour. 

“Later!” 

And she was gone. 

  
  


She wasn’t down at dinner. 

“She’s resting, _tesoro_ ,” my mother said, clicking her tongue at me. I must have been wearing my irritation on my face. 

“She seemed fine this morning,” I grumbled, my finger wiping the condensation from the glass of water I otherwise hadn’t touched. Mafalda heckled me daily about my lack of interest in hydration. As if the headaches and nosebleeds didn’t do a good enough job. 

My parents shared a look. I snuck further down in my chair. “I don’t think...” began my father, gingerly. They started using that tone with me the day I turned thirteen; the slow and controlled, condescending-in-disguise tone. Maynard, our summer houseguest two years ago, had told me it was because I slipped into moods of complete stone vexation when something troubled me. This year’s summer houseguest did not trouble me. “I don’t think she meant to be rude, I’m sure it’s a very normal thing to say in New York.” 

_She didn’t have to say it like that_ , I wanted to protest. She didn’t have to say it like she couldn’t care less about the feelings of others, care whether you took it rudely or not, care whether you minded or not, care whether or not she’d ever see you again. 

If you had asked me then, I would have said I didn’t know why I’d minded so terribly, why her abrupt, American _later_ had bothered me at all. 

If you asked me a few weeks from then, I’d have said it was because of her coldness in my own home. I deserved to be treated like her hostess, not some child you could hand a cookie to shut them up, even if I was seven years her junior. 

Seven years... and yet it seemed like a life time. She the perfect budding woman, and I, the adolescent, the child. Of course she wouldn’t treat me like a peer. I was a teenager and she was going to receive a doctorate in the fall. 

If you asked now why I hated her brush off American slang, I’d say it simply took me off guard, and it made me feel younger and smaller than I already was. 

All three answers would be a lie. 

I still had not replied and my mother shattered our silence. “I think she seemed very smart, hm?” 

“Oh yes, very. We compared favorite authors. Elia– you’ll never believe this– she said she reads Milton.” 

I risked a sip of the water and was disappointed to find it was no longer cold. Fucking July. “Everyone reads Milton.”

My mother laughed, more at me then with. “You’re such a snob- Mafalda, look at this, I’ve raised a snob.” But our cook was too busy raising an eyebrow at my plate of untouched food. 

“His poems or his political work?” 

“Both I think,” he puffed out a small, soft string of smoke. “Didn’t get the impression that she’s quite the poetry type, though.” 

“ _È molto carina_ ,” Mafalda chimed in, eyes still fixated on me. 

“I hadn’t noticed,” I heard my voice say. 

  


It was customary that every summer I give up my bedroom for six weeks to our summer houseguest. It was only ever my bedroom for the summer and winter break, so it hardly felt like my room at all anyway, and I didn’t mind giving it up. So, for nearly two months of what I had nicknamed home invasion, I occupied my grandfather’s old room. He’d died long before I was even conceived, but my mother had insisted on naming her first born child after him. Unfortunately for her, I popped out small, pale, and very female, so a bit of name revising would have to do. I’m not sure the dead can be offended anyway. 

I slogged up the stairs, floorboards creaking the entire way. Shadows fell across my feet, so contrary to the soft light from the open window at the end of the hall. I let my hand touch the wall and travel beside me as I walked, caressing the cool plaster. It was always so hot, even inside, which I usually didn’t mind. But tonight I felt flushed and heavy, despite hardly eating at dinner. 

Her door, I noticed as I passed, was shut. 

For a moment I imagined myself trying the knob, to see if it was locked, to see if she’d mind my walking in. If she didn’t, I’d sit on my bed, which now was, albeit temporarily, her bed. I’d take a drag from the cigarette she’d be smoking, just to show her I wasn’t as babyish as I looked, and ask her about Milton. It would impress her. 

I cringed at myself and walked into the bathroom. Brushed teeth, washed face, impossible-to-brush mop of hair looking extra mopish. I bit the peeling skin from my lips, a bad habit, before remembering that chapstick did not only exist, but was in the top drawer. 

Tip-toeing in case she was asleep, I slipped inside my makeshift bedroom. It was only till I was nearly completely undressed that I remembered I’d left all my clothes in my old room. 

A balcony connected my grandfather’s old room to my own, each of them possessing tall french doors as access. Anxiety coursed through my veins. She was probably asleep. Would it be rude to wake her? Ruder to try and sneak inside without waking her? What if she were to wake up halfway through my sneaking? Would she feel violated? _Maybe_ , some twisted part of me thought, _she deserves it after this morning_. 

_Later!_

I slipped back into my shirt and shorts and opened the door to the balcony. The heat was beginning to dwindle as the sun sank further into the sea, which was visible from here if one was so inclined to stand on the stone railing and look slightly to the left. My friends teased me mercilessly for being too chicken to even try. 

I knocked before entering. 

She was very much awake. The lamp beside the bed lit the room in a soft, pinkish red light that spilled over the yellow sheets and dresser and piles of books. The light was touching her too, illuminating her like an aura. She was still wearing what she had been, minus the sandals and hat, the latter resting on the tip of the bottom right bedpost. She seemed to keep her hair longer than most girls my age, and it was parted down the middle and falling in waves down her front. Soft peachy knees were bent and caused her fleshy thighs to dimple. It took me a moment to register that she was reading.

“I just came to get some things,” I mumbled, trying my best not to look like a needy child.

She glanced up at me then, all loveliness and coldness, “Oh.” Was she blushing? “Oh- yeah, right. Thanks for letting me use your room, by the way.” 

I nodded finding something caught in my throat and turned to my wardrobe, not actually looking at what I was grabbing, just taking essentials of underwear, t-shirts, shorts. When I turned back around I noticed she was staring. Her expression was sharp and unreadable, full pink lips pressed into a line, almost as if she was biting the inside of her cheeks. My stomach felt heavy again and I narrowed my eyes at her before looking away. 

“So you like Brontë?” 

I snapped my eyes back to her. “What?” 

She guiltily held up the novel that had been resting on her thighs, and I recognized it instantly. “Ever read it before?” She hadn’t. Had I? A million times. Did I like it? 

“It might be my favorite book. I like _Wuthering Heights_ almost as much, but that’s Emily not Charlotte.” Somehow I felt embarrassed admitting that, and my mind shifted instantly to my minute old fantasy of bringing up Milton. 

She wrinkled her nose, “I’ve never been a fan of romance.” 

I scoffed, “It’s not a romance, it’s pain and obsession and pining.”

“So far it’s just been her pain. I like her voice, the way she writes. Jane is… an interesting person to be in the headspace of.” Her reply made me giddy. She was flipping through the first few pages, landing on a particular passage and began to read. I knew the quote by heart, because I had always found it so eerily myself. 

“Keep reading,” I said after a moment. 

“Out loud?” I nodded. She looked confused and regret and heaviness sucker punched my gut. 

She shifted, “I actually should be working. Tuesday I meet with the translator, a Signora Mitali- or something- and I’m not sure what I’m even going to say besides ‘Please translate my book correctly’”. 

I vaguely remembered my father mentioning her book, something on Greek philosophy and how it affects art, religion, and politics today, something I found maddeningly interesting but didn’t want to let on just yet. I wanted to impress her, but not look like a know- it-all, and I’d already made a fool of myself once, if not twice in one day. 

“Good luck, then.” 

“Later!”

Later Later Later Later Later. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all school starts tomorrow, not fun times, and no 23 year old grad student fell in love with me :/ which is frankly homophobic 
> 
> pining pining pining pining

I would give anything to remember every detail of that summer. But mornings of breakfasts, early swims, transcribing music while Olive sat nearby, writing her doctoral thesis- and occasionally asking my opinion- all blur together. 

Around the second week of her stay, we had formed a sort of routine that we never outwardly acknowledged. We both showered in the evenings, I before dinner, her after, so our mornings were spent, usually silently, together. She jogged first thing while I read. Did I want to join her? No thanks. 

I liked running back then. But I didn’t want to appear desperate for her company, and time apart gave me time to pine in private, and pining was all I had those first few weeks. 

When she would return, the four of us would sit down to a delicious heavy breakfast. My father would carry on a conversation with Olive about some philosopher or another. My mother chimed in occasionally, drawing out ideas in her beautiful accent, always breathing soft puffs of smoke into the hot morning air. 

I never said anything at breakfast. I was perhaps afraid to sound young and out of my depth, but I think now, that I was more afraid of disappointing Olive. She’d asked my opinion on something one morning, on the third day she was with us. I’d stumbled through my words, trying to articulate my thoughts. I was surprised that she’d even ask me that I was unprepared to answer. I spoke too quickly and stuttered several times, trying to get my point across as fast as I could. When I was finished, I bit my lip and risked a glance in her direction. Olive stared back at me, cold, distant, unreadable. I wanted to throw myself off the balcony. 

Once Mafalda cleared the breakfast dishes, I’d sit at a small table in the back garden by our apricot trees. Some days I’d strum my grandfather’s old guitar, others I’d read whatever struck my fancy, but most of the time I had my headphones on, always opera. I transcribed my favorite arias for the piano. When ever I’d finished a piece, I’d play it for my mother who was the only other opera enthusiast in the house. 

Olive would usually join me outside. The edge of our small stone pool became her spot. She’d dip her legs in halfway up her calves into the turquoise water every so often, eyes fixated on her papers. We never spoke during that time. She probably didn’t even notice my presence, or my staring. I felt almost sinful for watching her like I did, admiring the curves of her body, the dip of her neck, the glittering Star of David that hung between her collarbones, teasing me, saying I get to touch. 

Around lunch time Olive would leave to go meet her translator up in B., the small town about thirty minutes away on foot. She always took a bike, swinging her leg over the seat so effortlessly, it made me insanely jealous. I was so short, I practically had to fling myself onto my bike, and couldn’t come close to touching the ground while on it. 

Sometimes I’d ride into B. with her, buy myself a lemonade and catch up with some friends in town while I waited for her. . 

Sometimes I just sat on the low stone wall outside the building where she met with her translator and listened to music.

“What’s wrong?” 

I jumped and laughed, awkward and breathy, realizing my cheeks were wet. I slid the headphones off my ears and let them hang around my neck, turning to face her. Olive had several pages of manuscripts in one hand, and her brow was furrowed. Her eyes were crinked around the edges, pink lips pursed in what I could only assume was disgust. I felt embarrassed and then I felt livid for being embarrassed. I was just crying, there’s nothing wrong with crying. Don’t care if it’s in public at two in the fucking afternoon, this woman had no right to feel replused or un-easy at my emotions. And she certainly didn’t deserve the right to make me feel self-conscious. 

“Nothing,” I spat, peering down at her. “Just listening to something.” 

Olive’s expression didn’t change. “You’re crying.” She said it like I didn’t know, like I was too stupid to know. I felt so stupid because I hadn’t noticed. Stupid because she saw everything, knew everything, understood everything. And I knew nothing then. 

I know nothing now.

Maybe it was the way she smelled, like Mafalda’s apricot juice and sweat. Maybe it was the way she leaned in, resting her hand beside my skinned knee. But it probably was because something in her cold mask cracked, causing the softest, kindest dip of her eyes and lips, that caused me to drop all anger and defense. And for that moment I thought she might return the feeling that chilled the pit of my stomach and froze my blood and breath. 

“Mad Scene from the opera Hamlet,” I murmured, gesturing weakly to the small cassette tape on my lap. To my great surprise, Olive gasped. My eyes widened. 

“You know opera?” 

She nodded.“I’m in no way any fanatic, but I saw Hamlet in New York once. I was crying so hard I thought my mother was going to die of secondhand embarrassment. I couldn’t breathe during that entire scene.” 

“It makes me want to kill myself with Ophelia, I want to stand on stage with her and scream with her and draw blood from my own arms…” I trailed off, wincing. “I don’t know why I said that.” 

Her lips parted like she wanted to respond, but her fingertips grazed my knee and I winced again, this time from pain and not regret. “Looks like you’ve already dawn some blood. How did that happen?” 

I was blushing like a drunk. “I… I don’t remember.” She was still touching my knee, but now she was caressing the underside of it. I wish I had been drunk. 

“I don’t remember,” Olive repeated, seeing through my lie. Which made me shiver to think she could look at me and reach right into the ugliest parts. Oh, Ophelia, give your dagger to me so I might carve my shame from my breast. I tried to cover it up by stretching, adding a yawn for believability. Our eyes met again and I took my bottom lip between my teeth. 

She ripped her hand from my leg like it burned her. Olive paused, handing me her papers like a peace offering. It felt like a stab in the back. I hopped down off the wall and put her papers in my rucksack, then slung it over my shoulders. 

“Wanna get ice cream?” I said, trying in vain to salvage what was left of whatever it was we were having. 

When I looked up at her that icy, untouchable expression was once again plastered on her face reminding me that no matter how pleasant in passing she might be, I would never know her. 

“Later, maybe.” 

“Elia, play something.” 

“Non voglio,” I muttered from the sofa, lying on my stomach. I heard laughter from the kitchen. 

I heard Olive tsk, “Don’t sass your mother.” Which didn’t improve my already pissy mood. I didn’t realize she’d gotten home.

Olive had taken to going out most nights, much to my displeasure. My immediate thought was that she had already begun fucking half of B., which made me blush and on second thought, almost aroused me. Nevertheless, it made me uncomfortable thinking she was walking around with strangers- she hardly spoke Italian for Christsake. What were we supposed to say if she went missing? Oh, ciao Olive’s mom, it seems we’ve lost your grown daughter! She’s probably been raped and murdered and thrown into the ocean. Tragedia. I thought about having to identify her body when they did find her. She’d look like Sleeping Beauty, her corpse blue and cold and salty from the sea. Perhaps a farewell kiss was appropriate. If she was dead at least I would have known where she was at all times. 

“Hey.” 

I looked up and there she was, looming over me like God, judging all my sins. “Can I help you?” She frowned at my biting words. Good. 

“That’s not nice,” she hummed. My neck started to ache, so I slid up onto my knees, pouting my lips at her. You’re not nice, I whispered to her in my head, positive she’d know my thoughts as quick as her own. Olive sat down beside me, mocking my position. I thought about grabbing her hand, and the thought frightened me. I imagined her look of confusion and polite rejection, and my pulse burned against my temples.

She brought her fingers up and flicked my nose. 

“That’s not nice,” I repeated, trying to sound like she did that afternoon in B. Mature, playful. 

“Brat,” She whispered. “Biting your lip and begging till you get your way.” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a brand I didn’t recognize. Olive lit one and gracefully breathed in. It was dark in the living room, the sun had set, and the only light was coming from the kitchen. The cigeratte’s embers glowed red hot inches from my lips. I was a little tipsy from the wine I’d had to drink at dinner and it must have gone straight to my brain. 

I imagined opening my mouth for her, just enough for her to understand. She’d slide the cigarette out of her mouth, and place it between my lips. Then I’d lick her fingers before taking a long, slow drag. Leaning in, I’d breathe out the smoke into her gaping mouth, our lips all but touching. I’d pull away and bite my lip at her. 

My lips began to part. 

Olive sighed, a small stream of white smoke puffing out. “I’m going to bed. Night.” 

Ah, yes, the evening edition of Later. And, oh, would you look at that, now I was wet and tearing up. Fucking wine. Fucking fuck.

I wasn’t antisocial exactly, just introverted, but my mother who was the most social butterfly of the kaleidoscope couldn’t comprehend the difference, and often gave me advice on the importance of making friends and being part of our community. I had a sixth sense of when one of these pieces of wisdom would impart from her. My mother would hold her breath for a moment while staring at me, the way mothers’ do when they disapprove. 

She looked that way now and sipped her coffee slowly, leaning back in the patio chaise. The cicadas were practically roaring and I wondered if I could turn around and pretend not to hear her. I didn’t move quick enough. 

“Marcelo called earlier.” 

“Oh?” 

“He invited you to go out dancing tonight in B. I told him Olive might be interested in going out. It might be nice for her to make friends here.” 

I wasn’t sure why it stung to hear that. Wasn’t I enough company? I knew the answer and didn’t know who I hated more, Olive or myself. “Did you tell Olive?” 

She paused. “I figured you might want to.” Did she know? What was there to know? Was I so easy to read? 

I said I’d tell her before lunch. 

“Marcelo?” Olive’s brow furrowed. “One of your friends?” 

“Not really,” I shifted, fingers curling around the hem of my shorts. 

Her eyebrows shot up. “Boyfriend?” 

“Oh! No, no it’s not…” I took my bottom lip between my teeth, and the action distracted her for a moment. “Not like that. I mean– I like boys, and I’d probably be happy if we kissed, he’s kind of handsome in his own way but–“ 

She was laughing at me, “Okay. Well, sure. Let’s go.” 

“Okay,” and I braved a small smile, feeling for the first time that we were friends. As my gaze met hers, I realized the laughter hadn’t reached her eyes.


End file.
